


Team Bonding (or reasons why Tony's had enough of it)

by RavenGrey



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers in pajamas, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt Tony Stark, Mother hen Thor, Swearing and dick jokes aplenty, Team Bonding, The team bonds through accidentally hurting Tony, Tony has an aversion to doctors, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And yep, there’s Mjolnir, hammer of Thor, on the floor in the middle of the damn hallway, perfectly fine despite the fact that it just broke Tony’s foot. He takes a resigned gulp of coffee and huffs dejectedly as the pain spreads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of those ideas that's hilarious at 2 in the morning and when I woke up it was still hilarious so I thought I'd give it a go. Hope it turned out alright, this is my first time writing for the Avengers and I'm a little nervous. I proofed it, so any errors are my fault. Might write more of these, but I'm not sure yet.

            “Merciful-fucking Christ, oh God why, I’m in so much pain.” Tony Stark yelps, hopping on one foot in the dark hallway and trying not to spill his half-empty coffee cup. He’s by Thor’s rooms, so he’s pretty fucking sure what he just broke his foot on, but he has Jarvis turn the lights to half anyway.

             And yep, there’s Mjolnir, hammer of Thor, on the floor in the middle of the damn hallway, perfectly fine despite the fact that it just broke Tony’s foot. He takes a resigned gulp of coffee and huffs dejectedly as the pain spreads.

             “Yep, this is it, I’m a goner, tell Pepper I’m sorry about that one time where I did that thing,” Tony tells the ceiling, looking down at the dark, reddish-black splotch of  bruise that’s darkening the top of his foot already “in my defense, it was hilarious at the time and still is.”

            “I’ll be sure to pass the message on to Ms. Potts, sir, but in the meantime perhaps you’d like me to wake someone?” Jarvis’ calm, quiet voice cuts through the mild upset his potentially broken foot had inspired. “Nah, s’it’s fine, it’s probably not even that broken.” He puts a little pressure on his foot and blows an angry raspberry when the burning, rippy pain in his foot flares up.

             “Your foot is very likely broken and you may require medical assistance. Might I suggest Captain Rogers or Dr. Banner? Or an actual doctor” Jarvis offers and Tony takes a few hobbling step in the direction of his room, ‘cause it’s closer than his lab and the thought of hobbling all the way there kind of makes him want to cry. Just a little.

            “Nope, no, don’t wake anyone, nosiree bob, definitely don’t do either of those things. And don’t think I didn’t notice that sass mister” He grumbles as he limps to the kitchen. The pointed silence that falls speaks for itself and Tony keeps all the pained sounds he wants to make quiet so Jarvis can’t gloat.

            He sets his World’s Best Mechanic mug that Pepper had gotten him for his 31st birthday down and flops into a chair, taking a break from his death hop. He throws an arm over his eyes and groans dramatically, peeping past his arm so he can get a look at his foot. It’s pretty ugly, already a mottled shade of purply-black that doesn’t promise a swift recovery and instead promises a brace at the very fucking least or, Pepper forbid, a cast because he’s pretty sure something is broken.

            “God-damnit Odinson, if I have to wear a boot because of you-”

  “Am I to assume you have a reason for cursing my name, Man of Iron?” Thor’s vaguely amused, oddly regal voice comes from the hallway as he steps into the kitchen. Tony really doesn’t think it’s fair that he can sound kingly in pajama bottoms that have his own face on them and nothing else.

            “Damn right you are, Mr. ‘I leave my mega-hammer in the middle of the freakin’ hallway’ at night. In the dark.” Tony snaps, poking the worst of it with his index finger to gauge the pain. His eyes sting and Thor’s eyebrows lower as he strides calmly into the kitchen and takes a knee.

            Literally takes a fucking knee to get a better look at Tony’s poor, abused foot.

            “Mjolnir did this?” Thor asks gravely, cupping Tony’s foot and rotating it gently. He tightens his hold gently when Tony’s leg jerks and barely avoids getting kicked in the face. Tony’s a little disappointed by that. Not that he wants to kick his team-mate in the face or anything.

             Definitely not. That would be bad. Like kicking a puppy.

            His foot looks freakishly small in Thor’s big hands and he resists the urge to jerk his foot away and hobble to freedom. He probably wouldn’t get very far anyway. “No, I did this. On Mjolnir. Which you left in the freakin’ hall.” Tony grits out, getting to his feet and sneakily hopping away when Thor rises, a smooth, graceful motion for someone who’s so damn big, to get a bag of peas out of the freezer.

            Tony’s barely made it out of the kitchen when Thor snags him carefully by the waist and carries him back into the kitchen. “What the hell, your arms are like steel,” Tony grunts, slapping Thor’s incredibly muscled arm. The sound is crisp and Tony’s oddly pleased with himself even though his head spins when he’s lifted off the ground and he feels nauseous.

             “I bet if you close-lined someone they’d probably die.” Thor sits him back down and lays the towel wrapped bag of peas carefully on top of Tony’s foot. Thor is torn between amusement and concern and gives a simple “I have tested that theory and it rings true, but thank you” as he lowers Tony’ foot gently to ground so the peas don’t slip off.

             He looks truly sorry when Tony sucks in a pained hiss and Tony kind of feels like a jerk even though it’s his foot that’s broken. The peas feel nice though.

            “Look, big guy, it’s fine, you didn’t mean to, yadda yadda, thanks for the peas, which hey, I didn’t even know we _had,_ but I’m tired, my foot hurts, give me a couple Tylenol and I’ll sleep it off.” He tries wriggling his toes a little and regrets it. Regrets it deeply.

            “Sir Jarvis, if you would wake the one who is happy and inform him that Anthony must be taken to a healer, I would be grateful.” Thor rumbles, completely ignoring Tony, who pouts just the littlest bit at his peas.

            “You’re just eating that up aren’t you, you good for nothing suck-up. I thought I programmed you better.” He grumbles at Jarvis who he replies with a crisp “Happy is awake and on his way. He’ll arrive in 20 minutes.” ignoring Tony completely. Tony gives the ceiling a “why me lord” look and whines out a low “nooo” as he considers making a break for it. Maybe tell Thor he has to pee and then crawl into some distant corner and sleep till tomorrow. Yeah, that sounds awesome, that’s definitely what he’s gonna do.

            He’s so lost in his scheming that he fails to notice that Thor is watching him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. If he were paying attention to the apologetic Norse God in his kitchen, he would have noticed the intense the look on Thor’s face, because a glaring Thor is just, well it’s just terrifying and hard to ignore.

            Tony considers the vents before crossing that off, ya know, due to the archer that pretty much lives in them, the Widow’s green house (except he doesn’t have a death wish quite that big), the training rooms cooling system, the laundry hamper, the fridge and under the desk in Bruce’s lab or maybe in Pepper’s closet--

             “I believe it to be a simple fracture, but such a wound can be crippling if not properly cared for. You will see one of your healers if I must carry you there myself, if you should attempt to flee I shall wake our comrades in arms and we will you find you wherever you may hide.”  Thor says, voice dangerously quiet, stubbled jaw set as he towers tall and regal in the middle of Tony’s kitchen.

            Tony blinks owlishly and says matter-of-factly “Wow, so I have a boner.”

            “Same.” Barton says deadpan from his spot perched on top of the fridge, wearing Hulk boxers and a ratty t-shirt. “It would be a most impressive feat.” Thor agrees amicably, mouth still set in a displeased frown even though his eyes are warm with amusement as he watches Tony closely.

            Tony bites out a “motherfucker” and clutches at his heart like a startled old lady. “Damn it Barton, why.” He gripes, glaring at the smug man crouched on his fridge. “Can’t help myself Stark, you just look so damn cute when you’re startled.” Tony tips his nose up and replies snootily “You’re damn right I do.”

            Tony bats his eyelashes at Hawkeye when he hops jauntily down from the fridge and drains the last of his luke-warm coffee.

             “So, this is happening?” Tony asks with a little more black despair peppering his tone than he’d like. “This is happening. X-rays and foot boots all around. Well, just for you Stark.” Clint affirms, lifting Tony’s peas and taking a good look at his foot. He whistles lowly and Tony kicks him half-heartedly in the shin.

            Barton casually plops the peas back onto Tony’s foot. Tony retaliates for the sudden flare of pain amidst the steady throb of hurt by trying to kick Barton again. He dodges it casually “Definitely a fracture, pretty sure it’s not broken, he’ll live.” Thor doesn’t look any less tense, but he favors Clint with a small smile and a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Thank you friend, might I ask you to watch Anthony while I clothe myself?”

            “I’m a grown ass man, I don’t need a sitter.” Tony says belligerently, crossing his arms and trying to look less tired and in pain than he actually is. “Bullshit Stark, that’s _why_ you need a fucking sitter, go for it, I’ll make sure he doesn’t wander off to die.” Thor’s lips twitch and he nods at Barton before leaving.

            “Eat a dick Barton. Eat a dick.” Tony says somberly, shaking his head. “Nah, already had my midnight snack.” Barton smirks back. Tony sucks in an offended gasp “Excuse you, my dick, while not huge, is sizable and at the very least a midnight meal for two. How very dare you, you circus heathen. ”

             Barton’s still laughing when Thor comes back, in worn jeans with holes in the knees and a shirt that makes him look like a lumberjack. Tony can’t help but grin and shake his head at the lumberjack-hipster standing tall and proud before him. “Looking good big guy.” Thor shakes back his mane of golden-blond hair, ignoring the obvious jab, and tightens Mjolnir’s strap through his belt loop.

            “Lady Darcy picked these for me.” Thor says calmly and leaves it at that. “Lady Darcy has excellent tastes.” Tony replies good-naturedly. “You got him?” Clint asks, arching an eyebrow at Thor.

            “I believe so; Anthony’s Happy should arrive shortly. You should rest, for who knows what tomorrow shall bring and the Man of Iron is downed.”

            “What come on, downed? It’s not even that bad.” Tony protests, hauling himself up and gimping a step forward when he overbalances. “Couple of vicodin, a few ace bandages, I’ll be right as rain.” The disbelieving look on Barton’s face is almost insulting but his mouth is pinched with pain and the urge to lay down on the cool kitchen tile and go to sleep is almost overwhelming. Thor gives him a quelling look and Tony, ever the pacifist, acquiesces with grace.

            “Fine, you guys win,” Tony says, hands up in a placating gesture “but,” Thor’s eyes narrow and Clint raises a threatening eyebrow “ _but_ , I have to pee and someone needs to get the suitcase suit out of the workshop.” Thor relaxes and Clint watches Tony’s placid face with blatant distrust.

             “Come on man, you really gonna deny me the right to take a leak?” When Clint just looks even more suspicious Tony throws his hands up and says in exasperation “You can watch for all I care, doesn’t change the fact that I have to pee.”

             “He is aware of the consequences, if he should try to avoid going to a healer I will wake the good Captain and leave him to his fate.” Tony grimaces and gives Thor a ruefully respectful look “You’re a cruel man Odinson. ‘Sides, I’m not going anywhere on this foot, so, Clint dearest, if you would get the suit from the workshop, we could get this show on the road.”

             The bitchface he receives is extensive. “J, you know what to do.” Tony drawls at Barton’s back. “Here comes the fun part.” He grunts as he takes a jerky step towards the bathroom. Thor scoffs and steps forward to steady him “I will carry you, as this is painful to watch.” He eyes Thor for a rebellious four seconds before caving and letting (pfft) himself be carried to the bathroom.

             “Thanks buddy, think I got it from here.” Thor opens the door quietly and pointedly sets Tony down right by the toilet before closing the door behind him. He hears Jarvis through the door and Thor’s fading strides down the hallway “Happy has arrived sir, he’s waiting in carport C6, however, might I suggest shoes for this outing?” He hears Thor’s amused huff and agreement before they get too far away.

            He does what he came to do and then cuts through the other side of the double-door bathroom to make a quick hop for Pepper’s rooms. They’re farther away than he remembers them being, even though they’re adjacent to his, and by the time he makes it to the blissfully cool rooms, he’s sweaty and in enough pain that it’s considerable.

             The dark of the room has him close to conking out before he can crawl into the bottom of Pep’s closet, amidst the expensive shoes and one of Pepper’s various chocolate stashes.

             Pretty much everyone except Natasha and Thor are afraid of Pepper, and rightly so, but no one’s dumb enough to wake the Widow and Thor holds Pepper in very high esteem and wouldn’t dare to go snooping through her closet, so Tony guestimates he’s got a couple of hours before anyone finds him, at the least.

            “Jarvis? Mums the word. Not a peep out of you.” Tony’s pretty sure he gets a sigh in response and is properly aggrieved. “Did you just sigh at me, young man.”

            “Of course not sir, that would be rude. Like leaving the people who have your best interest and good health in mind to search you out so that you may receive medical aid.” The sass is palatable and Tony is incredibly proud. “Little baby’s all grown up.” He mutters, wiping a tear from his eye as he snags a spare pillow out its cubby. There’s another sigh and then “If asked, may I tell them _something_ sir?” 

            Tony grins sleepily into the pillow and mutters out something he won’t remember later as he wriggles into a comfortable position on his bed of shoes.

            Foot propped up so it’s not touching anything; he curls in on himself, tugs down one of Pepper’s coats for a make-shift blanket and does his best to sleep as much as he can until they find him.

 

            “His words were, and I quote, “I don’t deserve no better than living with the shoes.” Jarvis reports dryly to the assembly of pajama’d avengers. Thor and Steve look confused.

            “Yeah, he’s hiding in someone’s closet.” Clint snorts, a hip cocked irritably as he drags a hand down his face.

             “How in the heck do you know that?” Steve asks, eyebrows knit, hair ruffled from sleep and the hasty hand he’s shoved through it when Barton and Thor had knocked on his door. He looks at Clint with bemusement.

            “TV reference,” Clint says briskly, thoroughly irritated with Stark, he’d just wanted a snack, damn it “he can’t have gotten very far, not on that foot. If we split up, we should get him.” Steve still looks confused, but he accepts it. They both look to Steve for orders and it takes him a second to realize.

            “Right, sorry,” Steve says a little sheepishly “Thor, check your closet and all the ones in the west wing, Barton east wing; try not to wake the Widow.”

            Clint snorts quietly “I’m not that suicidal Cap.” and lopes off, footsteps silent. “I’ll take the other two, let’s find him quick before he hurts himself more.” Steve finishes, quietly exasperated with his team mate. Hunting down Tony Stark at 1 in the morning is the last thing he wants to be doing, but it’s apparently what he’s going to be doing. Thor gives a grimly amused nod and leaves with his usual amount presence.

            Steve wipes a hand over his mouth and gives the ceiling the same “why me lord” look and starts the search for Tony.

            They find him, two hours and 23 minutes later, curled up in the bottom of Pepper’s closet, blinking sleepily, and smugly, up at a pissed off Hawkeye.

            And that’s how Tony winds up in his Dr.’s office at 3 in the morning, in the arms of a Norse God who just so happens to look like the king of hipsters, flanked by a deadly archer and a super soldier, both in their jammies. It’s a testament to how weird Dr. Marlow’s life is that this isn’t the weirdest thing she’s ever had happen since she’d taken on Tony Stark as a patient.   


	2. An Unforkunate Occurrence (or why Tony's pretty sure God hates him)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that’s how Tony ends up in Bruce’s special-time-out room, cradled to the Hulk’s huge, violently green chest while his hair is stroked with one surprisingly gentle finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, chapter two. It's about 3 in the morning and I'm sick of looking at this, so any errors are my fault.  
> This one kind of got away from me, but I really enjoyed writing it. Tell me what ya think pretty please, criticism, suggestions, I'm all ears.  
> The lovely magicbubblepipe helped me with the title.

            It’s a little after 5 in the morning when they make it back to the tower and Clint has enough blackmail material on his phone to last for years. As it turns out, not that anyone’s actually surprised, Tony is a crap lousy patient. Clint’s ears are still ringing from the ungodly wail of pain Tony had given when the good Dr. had started in on his foot with firm hands and steel in her eyes.

            Tony’s been hardcore pouting since Thor had wrapped him in a bear hug after his second failed attempt at fleeing the building and sat down solemnly on the crackly paper. With Tony in his lap.

             The pictures of that were definitely going on the internet. Clint figured he could use the one where Tony had fallen asleep on Thor, curled against his side, knee drawn up to his chest while the plaster on his cast hardened as leverage the next time Stark did something to seriously piss him off..

            Even though Tony was pretty out of it, Thor had kept rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles while Steve stood at a respectable distance, watching all three of them like they were his ducklings.

             Thor had lifted Tony carefully in his arms when the Doc had released them, carrying the conked out mechanic bridal style.

             Clint had gotten pictures of that, too. Steve was torn between scolding him for being insensitive towards a wounded team-mate and asking Barton to send it to him. Tony mumbles out something that sounds like an equation and buries his face in the crook of Thor’s neck.

             Steve wrangles his phone out of his jacket pocket and carefully takes a picture. Thor stops and stands proudly, head held high even though Tony’s nuzzling his neck every now and again and snoring gently.

            Happy had stopped by an all-night pharmacy to get Tony’s prescriptions filled, jaw set mulishly as Clint quickly relieved Steve of the prescriptions and more or less scrambled out of the car. It wasn’t his fault Tony has broken his damn foot, he didn’t see why he should get a talking to from a guy he’d never even met before now.

             Tony had given a horrified groan and made a grab for the door. He’d almost thrown open the lock and tossed himself out onto the street before Steve could stop him, expression grim. Their bitching had lasted all the way back to the tower and Steve and Thor had taken it with good grace.

            Clint had quietly hummed 99 bottles of beer on the wall the entire drive and had broken out in full song when Stark had joined in, drowning out Happy’s righteous tirade and effectively making a new enemy out of Stark’s old personal driver. It was a win win situation, really.  

             Clint gets where the guys coming from, really, he does, but the way he’s trying to drill a hole in the back of their heads is a little much, it’s just a fractured metatarsal for fuck’s sake, it’s not like they lopped his foot off.

            “So. He seems nice.” Barton says as he throws a jaunty wave over his shoulder at Happy, who’s glaring at them from the car as they haul Tony’s sorry ass inside. Mainly he’s glaring at Clint though.

            “Friendly guy, your Happy, I can just tell we’re gonna be best of buds.” Steve throws him a reprimanding look and gives Happy a thank you wave as he puts in his 15 digit pin. “You could have tried to be a little nicer; we did break his boss after all.” Steve chides, giving Clint a look that makes him feel like he’d just left the toilet seat up in a house full of ladies.

            “He broke himself, I had no part in the breaking of Stark. I am blameless.” The door slides open with a silent whoosh and Tony leans back to blow Happy a kiss. “If anyone broke him, unintentional or no, it was Thor, so he doesn’t have to look at me like I slapped his mama.”

            “ _Did_ you slap his mom, cause that would explain the stank eye.” Tony smirks, head lolling in Barton’s direction. “I don’t remember slapping his mom.” Barton says placidly, Tony’s handy dandy crutches held under one arm. Steve has the suitcase suit and Tony’s meds.

             “It’s something you’d remember,” Tony grins “cause she’d probably break your fuckin’ fingers.”

             Clint snorts quietly and says “I’ll keep that in mind before I decide to slap Happy’s mom” at the same time Steve barks out “Language Tony!”

            “Fudging fingers,” Tony corrects himself, shamefaced “I’ll be sure to put a quarter in the swear jar just as soon as we get up, Cap, I pinky promise.” Clint rolls his eyes, smirking just the littlest bit and Steve’s lips purse minutely.

            “Such swearing is unbecoming from a fine warrior such as yourself.” Thor says sternly, shifting his grip on Tony’s thighs so he doesn’t drop him as he strides past Steve and into the cool, warmly lit reception area.

            “Don’t worry big guy, Steve’s gonna give him a talking to and wash his mouth out with soap before we put him to bed.” Clint gives Happy one last wiggly finger wave before Steve disapproving dad’s him inside. He grins at the look of blatant disapproval on Steve’s face and pushes the elevator button for Thor, who’s got a billionaire playboy philanthropist clinging to his back and no hands to spare.

 

*

  

             Natasha and Bruce are sitting around the kitchen table, the silence thick enough, in theory, you could cut it with a knife. It’s polite though, so you have to give them credit for that. “Well,” Tony says breezily from Thor’s back, flanked by Steve and Barton, still in his grubby pajama bottoms and oil-stained tank top, single Ironman slipper dangling jauntily from his foot “I feel overdressed.”

            His cast is bright pink though, so he figures he should get props for that. It reaches a little above mid-calf and Tony hates that he kind of likes it. Which is unfortunate, because he’s going to be wearing it for the next 3 weeks. Natasha’s lips purse slightly and Barton inclines his head to the hammer hanging off Thor’s hip.

            A hint of a smile twists her full lips and she tilts her head minutely to side, curious despite herself. Tony misses all of this, because he’s too busy looking at the full coffee pot with raw longing.

            He glares at Clint’s back when he swaggers over to the pot and pours himself a cup. Tony almost moans at the cascade of liquid deliciousness and makes grabby hands when Clint slides the pot home and takes a sip. His eyes fall shut and he lets out a breath of moan, breathing in the rich scent of coffee.

            He looks Tony dead in the eye after.

            “Bitch.” Tony hisses, eyes narrowed. Steve sighs pointedly and Thor booms out a laugh, and it’s too early for that, like 9 hours too early for booming laughs and Tony really needs coffee.

             Bruce jolts awake for a confused couple of seconds, bleary eyes moving smoothly from face to face before settling on Tony’s violently pink cast. He opens his mouth, eyebrows drawing together, before he closes it with a shake of his head. He rests his head against his hand, takes a sip of luke-warm tea, and goes back to napping, his Starkpad drooping in his other hand.

             “Tony.” Steve says disapprovingly, arms crossed.

            “Steve.” Tony counters, equally as bitchy. He eyes the coffee with deep, deep longing and makes a tiny, bereft sound that makes everyone who’s semi-conscious roll their eyes or huff in amusement.

             Bruce’s eyes are closed, stubbled chin propped up against his hand as he tries not to fall asleep in his tea. He’s wearing his nice grey button-up, with a soft purple vest over it and jeans that don’t have any holes in them. He’s wearing the Italian leather wingtips Tony had replaced his well-worn dress shoes with and Tony’s gotta say, Bruce is lookin’ fine.

            Tony thinks he would look even better if his vest buttons weren’t misaligned and he’d put both socks on instead of one. “Oh come on, who let him dress himself?” Tony asks from his spot piggy backing Thor.

             Natasha arches an eyebrow in a way that makes Tony feel distinctly threatened despite the wall of muscle between him and her. She looks perfect, down to her manicured blood-red nails. She’s wearing jeans and a reddish-orange tank top with a brown leather jacket over it and hella cute black pumps.

            Tony’s pretty sure Pepper’s got a pair just like it and he’s both terrified and delighted by the idea of them collaborating.

            With their powers combined, Tony’s completely confident that they’d achieve world dominance within the month.

            “He looks great,” Tony adds quickly, ‘cause obviously she had picked out his clothes, probably shouldn’t have left him to get dressed by himself though “he’d look even better if his buttons were even.”

             Bruce frowns and blinks morosely down at his vest. He makes a grumpy little sound and fixes his buttons with slender, surprisingly clumsy fingers, so it takes a minute or two.

            “You’re missing a sock there buddy.” Tony points out as Thor carefully deposits him in the chair next to Bruce. Thor leaves them with a nod and a pleasant grin to get dressed, because they’ve got two hours until their first interview of the day and only 2 out of their party of 6 are actually dressed.

             Steve brings him a cup of coffee, and Tony’s eyes do not prick with tears, they most certainly do not, and he takes a reverent sip.

            “You’re my favorite.” Tony says in all seriousness, giving Steve a solemn look as he cradles the hot cup with both hands. Barton gives Stark a hurt look and puts a hand over his heart “You wound me, Tony, really, you do. I thought I was your favorite”

            “You’ve been replaced.” Tony moans happily into his cup and runs his fingers lovingly over the handle of the mug “Oh God, you’ve been thoroughly replaced.”

             Steve fights back a smile as he watches Tony chug an entire cup of coffee. Steve’s not sure how he does it, but Tony drinks an entire cup of coffee in 3 minutes and Steve gets him another, disappointment radiating from him in gentle waves as Tony unrepentantly glugs down a second cup.

            “That can’t be healthy.” Steve says to no-one in particular, throwing his hands up as he leaves Tony to his unhealthy coffee addiction to make a quick, _healthy_ , breakfast for his zombie team.

            “It isn’t.” Tony says smugly, trying, and failing, to find a comfortable place to rest his foot. He winds up with his knee pulled up to his chest and his booted foot dangling a few inches off the ground.

            “Because that looks comfortable.” Bruce mutters into his tea, eyes barely open as he stares vacantly at the growing bounty Steve plops down in front of them. There has to be at least 3 packages of sausages piled high on just one plate, in between him and Tony and there’s a literal mountain of biscuits in front of Natasha.

             The gravy bowl, _when the fuck did I get a gravy bowl_? Tony thinks, is by Bruce’s elbow and there’s bowl of fruit slices, placed strategically in front of Tony.

            Tony’s foot still hurts like a sonnuva bitch, but the pain-pills are starting to do their job and the pain has dulled to a bearable level. So he gets to his feet, limps over to the pantry and pulls out a box of sugar-cinnamon poptarts.

             He looks Steve right in the eye as he drops them onto the table with a dull thunk. Steve looks at Tony like he just slapped a dirty diaper down.

            “Mature, Stark.” Natasha’s says smoothly, rising to her feet to get plates, forks and knives. Tony stops nibbling on his poptart long enough to give her a sure-fire grin “I am the pinnacle of maturity, Romanov, shame on you for suggesting otherwise.” She gives him a bitch-please look and sets a plate down in front of him without a word.

            “I’m guessing Starks out for today.” She says while Bruce drops a fluffy biscuit onto Tony’s plate and rises with a cacophony of pops and creaks to get Tony his 3rd cup of joe. Tony wrinkles his nose at it and she steals the box of poptarts off the table while he’s distracted and puts it back in the pantry while he’s glaring skeptically at the sausages.

            He accepts the cup of coffee Bruce hands him like it’s the Holy Grail and pats his hand in thanks.

             “I’m gonna say yes,” Steve says, giving Natasha a grateful nod as she puts away the squares of sugary cardboard “unless you wanna try and get a pair of pants on him.” He finishes wryly, pulling bottles of juice from the fridge and setting them on the table. Nat eyes the look of childish glee on Tony’s face as he realizes he’s getting out of smoozing with the press and decides to stamp it out.

            “He’s got that pair of velcro pants left over from Darcy’s birthday, we’ll make it work.” She says deadpan and watches as the light drains from his eyes. Steve’s eyes dance with amusement and he says calmly and equally deadpan “Glad to hear it, we need all hands on deck for this.”

             She forks 2 sausages and slaps them down onto Stark’s plate, ignoring the look of utter betrayal he gives her as she cuts open his biscuit and slathers it with gravy. He transfers his betrayed stare from her angelic face to the sausages to Steve and then back to the sausages.

             “Stark, if you try to tell me this is the first time you’ve ever seen a sausage-” Clint leers as he comes back into the crowded kitchen, wearing jeans, a purple shirt and a black leather jacket. He props a booted foot on the edge of Natasha’s chair when he slides into the chair next to hers and shifts his bow so it isn’t digging into his spine.

             Steve chokes on his own spit and nearly drops his spatula, Bruce snorts loudly into his tea dregs and Tony chokes on the bite of sausage he’d just taken, torn between trying to breathe and laughing hysterically.

             “Ain’t the first time that’s happened, either.”

             Natasha hides a smirk in her coffee and then tears of a piece of a biscuit and pops it into her mouth while knocking Clint’s foot down. Clint just puts it right back up.

            Tony catches his breath long enough to gasp out “Oh my freakin’ God Barton” before he’s laughing too hard to breathe, much less form a coherent sentence.

            “Clint, so help me if you start the dick jokes up again,” Steve says, threatening a grinning Clint with his spatula “it is too dang early for that.” Bruce covers his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

            “Scout’s honor Cap, last one till 2.” Clint says, crossing his heart and sauntering out to brush his teeth. He leaves a gasping Tony and a pink-face Steve in his wake. “It better be mister.” Steve threatens idly as he puts the last of the eggs on plates.

             “And yet you didn’t deny it.” Bruce mumbles, eating a dry biscuit with the same look on his face he usually has when he mixes chemicals that can and will go boom. Tony’s ribs hurt and he catches his breath before muttering back “No, I didn’t.”

            Steve, what with the super hearing and the being less than 10 feet away, gestures accusingly at Tony with the spatula and barks out accusingly “Instigator” before throwing his hands up and going to get dressed with a “Eat your darn breakfast Tony.” thrown over his shoulder. Tony drags a hand down his face, torn between choking out a few more horrified laughs and curling up under the table and sleeping off the embarrassment.  

            Tony’s pretty sure he could make it to the workshop if he tried, hole up in there all day, or at least until the good Captain forgot about his penchant for sucking dicks. Maybe rebuild the Quinjet’s engine.

             That or he could sleep. Yeah, he’s gonna sleep. He’s gonna sleep so much.  Screw pandering to the press. His foot hurts and he’s going to bed no matter what anyone says. If he has to sleep _at_ the press conference, then so be it.

             Thor ambles, cape billowing majestically, Mjolnir still hanging from his belt.

            “Is that really necessary? Like, seriously man? The cape and everything?” Tony gripes, poking the fluffy, sunshine yellow eggs with a skeptical finger as Thor digs in. He takes a bite and is pleasantly surprised by how good they are. Bruce gets up and gets fresh tea.

            The steam billows up from the thick mug and steams Bruce’s glasses. Tony wipes it away and Bruce gives him a faint smile. Tony wipes his damp finger down Bruce’s cheek as he shovels eggs into his mouth.

             Bruce retaliates by flicking a piece of egg at him and Natasha cuts in with a brusque “Children.” before an all-out food fight can manifest itself. They both have the good sense to look guilty and go back to their food.

            “The Director has told me my full armor is good for the ‘PR’ that will help heal the damage the Chituari have done between our people, so I will wear it.”  Thor says, and it’s decidedly final as he sits down and piles a plate high with biscuits and then drowns them in gravy.

            “That was like, forever ago, though, are people seriously still mad about that?” Tony asks no-one in particular. He gets a chorus of “Yes”s in varying levels “for someone who’s supposed to be a genius you sure can be a dumbass.”

            “Tony, it was 6 months ago.” Clint says slowly, reaching out to pat Tony’s hand consolingly. “So, forever ago.” Tony counters cheerfully, mouth full of egg and sausage. Bruce wrinkles his nose and shakes his head, putting food into his mouth almost mechanically.

            They eat in silence, and it’s more or less companionable, not that anyone’s actually talking. It’s almost like Cap is the glue that holds them all together and without him they start to fall apart around the edges. It’s nothing huge, nothing horrible awkward, just a neutral silence whereas before there had been banter and laughter despite the ungodly hour.

 

*

 

             Tony’s pretty sure if it hadn’t been ass-‘o-clock in the morning, or maybe if he hadn’t been up all night with a broken foot, or maybe if Bruce hadn’t been kept awake all night with the kind of nightmares that catch in your throat and become strangled screams it wouldn’t have happened the way it did.

            But, it is ass-‘o-clock in the morning, Tony has been up all night with a broken foot and Bruce hasn’t slept all that much because of his nightmares and he just so happens to go for another sausage at the same time Tony does.

            Tony looks at the fork buried about half an inch deep in the back off his hand with disbelief and turns it to get a better look. Bruce’s eyebrows lower and he looks up from his pad to stare in horror at the fork protruding from the back of Tony’s hand.

             “So,” Tony says casually, pulling the fork free and offering it to Bruce “that happened.”

            Four drops of blood well from the deep punctures and Tony’s hand starts to bleed in earnest.

             “Huh, would ya look at that.” Tony says calmly, even though everyone is looking at him with varying degrees of horror and trepidation. Natasha’s look ready to bolt and Clint taps his fingers silently, steadily against the shaft of his bow.

             Bruce scrambles to his feet, knocking his chair and the gravy bowl to the floor. Gravy splatters Tony’s cast, Nat’s and Clint’s pants are spared because they get their feet up in time. “Oh God Tony, I am so sorry, jesus, sorry, I didn’t mean to, Christ it’s bleeding a lot, I swear I didn’t mean to-”

            “Bruce, it’s fine, really,” Tony says, lowering his voice so it’s soft as velvet and soothing, rising easily to his feet and slapping a dishtowel over his bleeding hand. “It’s not even that deep, seriously, no biggie.”

            Bruce backs away from him, hands up, expression tight, and trips over his overturned chair.

             Bruce’s hand flashes out to catch himself, palm flat against the still hot stove-top and Natasha’s out of her chair and into the hall before Bruce’s body acknowledges the searing pain. Clint really wishes he had more space to draw, but he makes due as green starts to spread out over Bruce’s skin and his nifty vest rips at the seams.

 

*

 

            And that’s how Tony ends up in Bruce’s special-time-out room, cradled to the Hulk’s huge, violently green chest while his hair is stroked with one surprisingly gentle finger. “Bruce sorry, he no mean to.”

            “S’fine big guy, tell Bruce I’m not upset.” Tony replies easily, tone measured and pleasant and at ease. He can feel the low rumble of the Hulk’s voice all through his body and he’s not as upset by his current position as he should be. It’s getting him out of the bazillion press conferences he’d had scheduled today, so his surprise cuddle-fest with the Hulk is almost, but not quite, a blessing in disguise.

            But it’s like, heavily disguised. Full gilly suit kind of disguise. It’s almost a blessing so heavily disguised it’s come full circle and is now a burden. 

            The shutter-click of someone taking a picture with their phone comes from the vent he’d put in specifically for Barton when he’d built the damn room.

            “Are you freaking kidding me Barton?” Tony breathes out, eyes narrowed as he glares half-heartedly up at the slats of the air vent. “No, no I am not Stark.” Clint says gleefully, taking a few more to make sure this moment is immortalized for all eternity.

            Tony somehow manages to look down his incredibly rich nose at Clint even though he’s in the freakin’ air-vents

             “Those better find their way onto the internet.” Tony grumbles as the Hulk starts to rock him gently, still stroking Tony’s grease streaked hair with shocking amounts of care. Tony can’t see the dirty, offended look Barton throws him but he can feel it. Tony grins cheekily, eyes heavy despite the fact that he should be wide awake and 10 kinds of terrified.

             He falls asleep in the Hulk’s massive arms, lulled by the slow rocking motion and the sleeping pill Steve had slipped into his coffee.

 

 


	3. Right To The Point (or Seriously, Fuck Pigeons)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Seriously, this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up on top of a naked guy, deep breaths Bruce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been awhile since I updated this one, but here's this.

 

           “Seriously, this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up on top of a naked guy, deep breaths Bruce.” Tony says, the picture of zen as he moves off of Bruce and flops onto the ground.

            His leg aches dully when it thuds against the padded floor and he bites down on a pained grunt. Bruce is really naked, and embarrassed, and Tony feels kind of bad for the guy.

            Okay, he definitely feels bad for the guy. His glasses had gotten lost in the change and between his squinty eyes and the fact that he looks like hammered dog-crap, Tony really wants to give him a cuddle.

           Except he’s naked, which isn’t that big of an issue for Tony, but he figures Bruce wouldn’t appreciate a naked cuddle at this point. Instead, he shimmies out of his pajama bottoms without getting up and hands them to Bruce.

           Bruce gives him a grateful look and stands on wobbly legs to step into Tony’s pants. Tony scritches his knee above his cast and lies down, because his leg hurts and he’s a little nauseous and he just had a cuddle party with the Hulk.

           Bruce sits back down, as far away from Tony as he can, back to the wall. He’s tired and almost sick with guilt, but something catches his eye and he breaks his miserable silence. “Tony?”

           “Yes Brucey?” Tony murmurs, voice scratchy with sleep.

           “Are you wearing Hulk boxers?” Bruce asks hesitantly after, a healthy pause.

           “As a matter of fact I am. Thank you for noticing.” Tony says proudly.

           Bruce laughs, and it’s worn around the edges and so tired, but Tony grins at him and sits up. He scooches closer to Bruce, until they’re shoulder to shoulder, even though Bruce goes tense and has a tight look on his face

           “No.” Tony bumps him gently and Bruce looks at him skeptically.

           “No?” Bruce arches an eyebrow and repeats curiously. The steady, sure warmth of Tony is soothing and he relaxes into it before he realizes that Tony should be as far away from as is physically possibly right about now. Then he goes tense all over again.

           “No.” Tony bumps him again and keeps his shoulder pressed casually against Bruce’s. “We aren’t doing this. I’m not a delicate damsel and you’re not a monster and we. Aren’t. Doing. This.”

           “I could have killed you.” Bruce says quietly and Tony rolls his eyes.

           “Bitch _please_ , Thor or Cap or Barton, hell I would have been able to stop you, would have taken less than 20 seconds to get the suit.” He says it with such calm surety that Bruce almost believes him.

           “‘Sides I’m too pretty to die.” Tony adds, preening, and Bruce grins despite himself. He scrubs a hand down his face, palm catching on the stubble that dots his jaw.

           “I disagree.” Natasha says pleasantly as the door swooshes open. Clint’s behind her, smirking, and they both ease into the room, fully dressed and ready for whatever press conference hell waits for them. Tony throws her a hurt look and wipes away an invisible tear.

            “First and foremost Nat, I am deeply hurt, cut to the quick, to the _very bone_ , by your meanness and secondly-”

           Barton throws Bruce’s pants on Tony’s head, effectively cutting off his rant. He hands Bruce his boxers and the loose button up they’d brought and Bruce gives him a grateful smile.

           “No respect.” Tony says mournfully, shaking his head sadly. The pants wobble precariously and Bruce pulls them off with a wry smile.

             Tony pouts at him, hair sticking up in odd places, and throws his pajama bottoms over his arm as Bruce changes. He gets to his feet with Nat’s help and limps out, somehow imbuing a certain amount of swagger in his uneven gait. Bruce waits until the clump of Tony’s cast fades and Bruce has his pants on to say calmly.

           “We wouldn’t have let you hurt him Bruce, not seriously at least, so stop with the angsting.”

           Bruce opens his mouth to protest and Clint cuts him off “We could smell the man-pain and angst from down the hall. You feel bad, boo-hoo; Tony’s fine, you’re fine, the kitchen, not-so-much, but hey, shit happens.”

           “They had it under control.” Natasha agrees, offering a hand and pulling him up. His movements are stiff and he pops his back with a groan as he straightens. Every part of him aches and he’s looking forward to sleeping until he hurts less.  

           “I stabbed him with a fork.” Bruce says mournfully, accepting the nondescript pair of glasses Natasha hands him.

           “You stabbed him with a fork.” Nat says, lips twitching up despite the seriousness of the situation. Barton grins widely “Wish I’d stabbed him with a fork.”

           Bruce snorts out a laugh and staggers out of the containment chamber, flanked by Clint and Natasha. He feels safe, two lethal assassin’s on either side of him, and tries to ignore the steady aching throb in his bones.

           Tony’s in the kitchen, resplendent in his Hulk boxers and oil-stained tank top. He’s getting coffee, muttering “fork stabbed” to himself in disbelief when they get there.

            His crutches are by one of the new chairs and he tries to imagine the genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist using them. He’s not gonna have to, here in a bit, and Bruce’s lips twitch despite how bad he feels.

             He goes a light shade of pink and eyes the four little holes in the back of Tony’s hands guiltily.

           They’re red and a little puffy. Bruce pulls the first-aid kit out of the cabinet, which is kind of sad that they need a first aid kit in the kitchen, and sets it down on the new kitchen table.

            Tony mutters one last final, melancholy “fork stabbed” before thumping over with his mug in one hand and the entire pot of coffee in the other.

           Clint rolls his eyes and pours himself a cup. If Tony were a dragon his hoard would consist of coffee and advanced technology. Following that thought process; Tony might actually be a dragon.

           Bruce stops the squabble before it can start by swiping the back of Tony’s hand with an alcohol wipe.

           Tony hisses in a betrayed breath and turns watery, pitiful eyes on Bruce. “Why Bruce? I thought what we had was special.”

           Bruce rolls his eyes and with a sly, almost embarrassed smile, mutters “Bitch please” while slathering neosporin on a gauze pad.

            Barton chokes a little on his coffee and Natasha makes a quiet sound of amusement as she dumps Tony’s meds into her palm. Tony blinks at him, startled, and then his face breaks into a wide, sleepy grin while Bruce wraps his hand with half a roll of bandages. 

           Tony doesn’t have enough coffee in him to make words yet, but his pride shows. Bruce shakes his head and tucks the end of bandage under.

            Natasha dumps the pills into his hand and steals his mug while Clint takes the pot. Bruce gets him some water and, where the fuck did Steve even come from? Steve stern looks him into taking his meds.

           Tony throws them back without looking at them, pouting at the new table like it’s personally wronged him. “Traitors. All of you. You’re outta my will.”

           “Oh no. We’re crushed.” Nat says deadpan as she moves to Bruce’s shoulder.

            “Completely crushed. However will we go on.” Steve adds, just as deadpan as he watches Tony’s throat bob.

           “Show me.” Steve says, using one of his bossiest voices.

           “Oh come on, did you really bust out your Cap voice?” Tony whines, but opens his mouth and shows Steve that he actually took his meds. Steve nods, satisfied, and Tony does the mature thing and blows a huge raspberry at him.

              Bruce gets up, joints creaking, and Natasha steadies him. He gives her a half-smile and turns to Tony.

           “Sorry I, you know, stabbed you with a fork.” He rubs at the back of his neck and manages to look Tony in the eye.  

           “Nah, we’re good, you think this is the first time I’ve been stabbed with a fork?” Bruce looks confused and Natasha arches an eyebrow in interest while Clint smirks into his coffee.

            Steve looks thoroughly unsurprised and it’s _almost_ insulting.  

           “Dating tip, lady and gentlemen,” Tony says lazily, getting to his feet. The boot is awkward to stand on and he feels a bit like Igor as he takes a few lumbering steps. With a disgusted glare, he takes up his crutches and hobbles to the fridge.

           “Like we’re gonna take dating advice from you.” Barton snorts and Tony shushes him on his way to the fridge.

            “If you’re gonna break up with someone during dinner, wait until they clear the table. Nothing quite says ‘don’t call me’ like a fork in the shoulder.” Tony grabs a pizza box and rattles it to makes sure it still has pizza in it.

           “And on that helpful note, I’m gonna hit the hay.” Bruce says, ambling past Steve with Natasha following a few steps behind.

           “It’s cute that you actually say things like ‘hit the hay’.” Tony says, grinning as he flips it open and grabs a piece at random.

           “Tony, no.” Steve sounds horrified as he watches Tony cram half a piece of cold pizza into his mouth. Tony smirks around his pizza and grabs the box. “Please tell me you aren’t taking that to bed with you.”

           Tony tucks it under his arm and starts to long tromp to his bed, tossing a two-finger salute over his shoulder. “Have fun kissing asses, I’m going the fuck to sleep.” His foot seriously hurts and he’s breathing hard before he even gets half-way down the hall.

           Thor passes him on his way to the kitchen and stops him with a huge, incredibly warm hand.

            “The hard way or the easy way, my friend?” Tony almost wants to cry with relief.

           “Easy way. Definitely the easy way.”

           Thor laughs, a low rumble of sound, and leans down so Tony can wrap his arms around his neck. He curves his arm along the backs of Tony’s knees, above his cast, and lifts him easily. The sweet relief that washes over him is worth the vague embarrassment.

           Okay, who’s he kidding, he’s Tony Stark, this is friggin’ great. The Norse God of Thunder is carrying him to his room, the Norse God of Thunder who is incredibly built, like, 10 out of 10, and he really can’t find a reason to complain.

           He finds one as the shutter-click of a camera phone goes off.  

           “I want all of you gone by the time I wake up.” Tony calls over shoulder as Thor carries him bridal style to his rooms.

           Clint’s mean laughter follows him down the hall and Steve grins sheepishly as he ducks back into the kitchen. “Send that one to me?” Clint asks as he pours another cup of coffee.

           “Of course.” Steve agrees easily, selecting a choice few of his contacts and sending out a mass text.

           Natasha comes back with a slight smirk on her face and the news that the good doctor is completely out of it.

           “Alright team,” Steve says with a good ‘ol boy smile “who’s ready to kiss some asses?”

*

           When they get back, worn out and exhausted, Steve finds Bruce where Natasha had left him, spooning the sofa while Jarvis plays him folk music. Carefully, he pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and drapes it over him.

            Natasha passes him on her way to the green house and he levels an exhausted half-smile her way. Her lips quirk up on one side and she throws a wave over her shoulder. Steve’s pretty sure Clint’s at the archery range.

            Tony’s in his ridiculously huge bed, curled around the empty pizza box with the lights still on and Steve pulls his blankets up with an exasperated sigh. Tony kicks them off almost immediately and Steve throws his hands up. He pulls them up one last time and Tony smiles sleepily.

           He almost misses the whisper-soft murmur.

           “Thanks Cap.”

           “Anytime, Tony.” Steve murmurs, flicking the lights off as he trudges from the room.

  *

           It’s 7 weeks before he’s cleared to do anything. Like, anything, other than Avengers paper work and Stark Industries business and answering fan-mail. That’s not all that bad; it’s kinda nice really, except when he gets the really weird ones.

           For example, he’s received three cups of blood, a baggie of fingernail clippings and a cup of; he _really_ hopes that isn’t cum. But it is and he leaves the fan-mail alone after that. Two weeks in and he’s on Conan, one of his pants legs cut so they can stuff it down into his cast.

           Thor hangs around him when the team isn’t doing PR, the perfect mother hen, and Tony still can’t find a reason to complain even though the picture of Thor carrying him bridal style is all over the internet.

           Yoga isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he was cleared for duty, but he’s really stiff from inactivity and it’s better than nothing.

            Natasha is in the gym usually used for yoga and whatnot, but she’s super-judgmental and instead of relaxing and stretching out his muscles, he’d spend his mandatory yoga time being told all the things he’s doing wrong.

           He heads to the range, slash sparring room, separated by a very thick wall because he’s not a fucking moron. He works through his poses, reveling in the movement, and then hits the showers because he seriously stinks.

           He steps out, feeling frisky, and tosses his boxers and grey tank-top into the laundry chute. He takes a second to acknowledge how gross he is because that tank-top started out white. And then he steps back into pajamas, another tank-top and his silk jammie pants, because no amount of showers will change how fundamentally gross he is.

           An explosion vibrates through the wall that separates the two rooms and Tony grins, excited, as he realizes that Clint’s trying out the mini-explosive arrows. You know, for when you need to blow shit up on a minor scale.

           Clint hears Tony come in, would have known he was there without Jarvis announcing him and switches to regular arrows just to piss him off. “Nice pajamas Stark.”

           He doesn’t have a single fucking clue where the pigeon comes from, they’re 16 stories up and all of the windows are fucking bullet proof, but it descends from the rafters in a fit of fury and pigeon righteousness and dive-bombs Clint’s head.

           His finger slips minutely on the bowstring and he tightens his grip. He acknowledges the sharp sting of pain as the bow string slivers his fingers and turns to fire the arrow. The pigeon comes in for a second sweep and it goes wide, ricocheting off one the overhead lights    

           It arches lazily through the air, and sticks in Tony’s thigh with a meaty ‘thok’.

           He hears Barton’s “oh fuck” through the wooshing in his ears and doesn’t look down. Doesn’t look down and keeps walking, leg dragging as his body registers the pain.

            Blood wells and trickles hotly down his leg and he makes a sound that, in any other situation would be described as whimper. Pepper peeps her head in a few seconds after the arrows burrows itself in Tony’s leg and she takes it like a champ.

           “Tony, there’s an arrow in your thigh.” She says crisply, professionally, as she enters the training room.

           “Didn’t happen.”

           “Tony-”

           “Didn’t. Happen.”

           His next “Didn’t happen.” is slightly hysterical and Clint is talking at him using his soothing voice and Tony’s freaking out because there’s an arrow in his leg and _ow_. _Fuckin’ ow_.

           He keeps trying to limp away even though Clint’s strong fingers are wrapped around his upper-arm and Pepper’s on the phone with Bruce. She’s using her business voice and Tony blinks his eyes to stop his vision from swimming.

           “Clint please tell me this isn’t an exploding arrow. Please.” Tony sounds desperate, even to himself, but he really likes having legs so he feels it’s justified.

           “’Course it isn’t, I’dve gotten it out by now if it was.” Barton manages to sound offended even though he just shot Tony in the thigh.

           “You just shot me in the fucking leg, you do NOT get to be offended Buster Brown.”

           “Fair enough.” Clint says dryly, assessing how deep the arrow is.

           “Believe it or not fussy-britches, your pretentious pajamas have saved you from an ass-ton of pain.”

           “Thanks Barton, _that_ makes me feel better.” Tony says though his teeth, looking down at his ruined silk pajama bottom. The material is shiny with blood and the hard jut of the arrow makes him feel woozy.

            He’s been wounded worse than this, but something about the smooth, silver shaft jutting from his leg seriously squicks him out.

           “Good night guys, I’m losing a lot of blood.” Tony says, voice thin with pain.

            “Tony now is NOT the time to quote Talladega Nights.” Pepper snaps.

           “It’s always the time to quote Talladega Nights, Peps, don’t be dumb.” Tony says breezily. Clint’s eyes glitter with begrudging amusement.

           “I can get this out, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but I can do it. Bruce’ll be here in a couple of minutes to stop the bleeding, but it’d be best if we didn’t jostle you too much.” He says it calmly and Tony believes him.

           “Go for it, almighty pigeon king.”

           “Fuck you Stark.” Barton’s face is a mask of calm and Tony tries to take comfort in that. He steadies his breathing and loosens his white-knuckled grip on Pepper’s hand.

            They could probably get Tony to the elevator and to the medbay without jostling him too much, but it could lodge the arrow deeper and if it makes it through the silk this is gonna get a lot more painful for Tony.

           “You do realize I’m never gonna let you live this down, right?” Sweat beads on Tony’s forehead as Pepper and Clint help him to the ground. His head is in Pepper’s lap and the floor is blissfully cool against his back.

           “Feeling less and less bad about shooting your rude ass.” Clint mutters amicably as he pulls out one of his throwing knives and cuts as big a square he can in the leg of Tony’s sleep pants around the arrow.

           The only sounds are Tony’s surprisingly steady breathing and the fluttering of the pigeon’s wings as it flits from rafter to rafter.

           Bruce switches out with Pepper when he strides calmly into the room, Tony’s head cradled in his lap as he settles his warm, battered hands on Tony’s shoulders. He doesn’t apply pressure, but if Tony jerks, he’s ready to keep him down.

            “Ms. Potts, I realize I’m probably not your favorite person right now, but I need you to hold his legs while I pull this out. He might kick.”

           “Got it.” Pepper moves down by his feet and hunkers down. “We both saw the pigeon.” She adds and Clint can’t keep the twitch of embarrassment off his face. Pepper gives him a tight smile and a sure nod and Clint makes sure Bruce is ready.

           He jogs over to his gear and takes out his wire cutters. Tony’s eyes are closed tightly, lips pressed in a grim line and Barton feels like the biggest douche-bag on the planet. “Gonna snip the shaft.”

           “Ouch.” Tony winces in sympathy.

           “Anthony Stark now is not the time for dick jokes.” Pepper says, capable hands holding down his calves. Tony’s flinches when he snips it as close to the arrowhead as he’s comfortable with.

           “Gonna take it out now.” Clint warns before Tony can get a word out, gripping both sides of the silk square tightly.

           “Less talk more action, big boy.” Tony grits out, nails digging deep into his palms as he fights a wave of nausea. Pepper sighs angrily but puts her full-weight into keeping Tony down.

            It’s slow going, but Barton slowly, steadily removes the small arrow-head from Tony’s upper leg. The silk makes it easier, having prevented the arrow from burrowing itself too deep.

            Barton’s fingers burn but he doesn’t let up until the arrowhead is free and he has to small metal point in his palm and a bloody scrap of silk clutched in his other hand.  

           “How is it,” Bruce asks, the picture of serenity as he applies pressure to Tony’s leg “that you two a-holes are the only ones who didn’t get the memo about the pigeon loose in the building?”

           Apparently he is a fucking dumbass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation of the arrow proof jammie pants. Mongolians used to use silk to lessen the damage arrows did. So instead of having to cut it out, or push the arrow through the body, you can pull it out.


End file.
